


Directions

by wyxest



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Well - Freeform, accept my headcanons, but - Freeform, dont kill me, germany doesn't appear im so sorry, i really love him though, prussia is da best bro, send me happier prompts, so anticlimatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 20:16:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13795500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyxest/pseuds/wyxest
Summary: If he could at least make North Italy real, even if only in these transient moments, Gilbert would always get lost with him. Over and over again. And if Feliciano broke down after the silence that ensued, with only Gilbert and the church as witness, the sun dying at a far distance, it is nothing but two amalgamations grieving.OrIt's the sixth of August and Feliciano tries to reassemble himself.





	Directions

**Author's Note:**

> There is a discrepancy in writing style because I wrote the first half two years ago and crammed everything tonight, please forgive me.

**_August 6_ **

Huh.

Feliciano gazed at the date printed immaculately on his calendar.

_A flash of short blond hair._

The printed symbols returned his stare.

_Blue eyes like winter iced over._

A wave of heavy, oppressive, wreckage shot past him, down his brain – sending numbness through his body.

_A frown, almost impeccable, pinning him down with soft fondness._

He looked down on his hands, covered with gloves and trembling.

_A hand guiding him through the lonely hallways of his – or what used to be – home. Barely calloused. Warm._

He blinked and when he opened his eyes, he _sees_ _France on their doorstep, a journal, a push broom, a blood stained letter and a painstakingly familiar black hat._

_The weather was sunny and bright with a promise of light rain showers._

_France was almost in tears._

_Feliciano was miserable._

_And everyone else was ignorant._

_As the world continues to turn._

_1806._

_He blinked and_ he was back in his too large room, desolate and still grieving- even after centuries - as he wears a smile too bright to be reflective of his thoughts.

**_August 6_ **

The day when Holy Roman Empire – his _Sacro Romano Impero –_ ceased to exist.

That is to say a simple signature on parchment, and a simple swing of a blade killed _him._

His entire fault, he should’ve said yes, he should’ve been there as he fought.

Should’ve died with him.

Would’ve.

But he was too scarred, too tired to fight, too frightened of the war.

Foolish.

He was foolish.

Centuries. A millennium and he still hasn’t learned.

No matter how much he detested battles and needless bloodshed, running could never be an option.

He was a coward.

Holy Roman Empire-

_-was his fault._

He knows France wasn’t to blame, he was just following his _capo’s_ orders, but before rationality, the anger and loathing had festered and enmeshed deep within his mind, settling as the groundwork for his frustration. Until now, centuries after centuries passing, he doesn’t have the heart – _Holy Rome took it with him when he died –_ to completely forgive France, his sweet, _loving Big Brother France._

Standing languidly, his thoughts raged, consuming him until it hurts to breathe, it hurts to feel, it hurts to think, it hurts to grieve, it hurts to _live_.

_I love you._

Staying in bed all day is what his mind seems to want, unmoving and lamenting inside the covers and safety of his own covers.

_“I’ll be waiting for you in front of the gate with all the sweets you like…”_

He bolted awake as words – _hisownvoice-_ echoed inside his mind.

Today, his façade is patchy. Imperfect and filled with holes. How _weak_. Maybe that is why all those he _loved_ had _left_ him.

He chuckled mirthlessly. Annual breakdowns like this are probably unhealthy. Galileo did tell him to be careful of his thoughts.

But he doesn’t have a Galileo to tell him that nor a Leonardo to ease his troubles nor a Niccolo to tell him what he might’ve done wrong _nor his Holy Rome to wipe his tears away andembracehisfears-_ st _op._

It wasn’t just because of his _Sacro Romano Impero’s death._

It was-

 _His years of being alive –fallacies, secrets, pain, regrets and-_ everything he loves just keeps disappearing. One by one. Like a knife being dragged slowly across his eyes.

Painful. Slow. Agonizing.

Otherwise, his façade was perfect, impervious -believable.

Perhaps there was actually no need. Without his façade, his life would probably be much easier.

The nations underestimate him.

His friends coddle him.

And his brother doesn’t fully understand.

But dropping it meant he had forgotten and he can’t- _won’t, his mind supplied-_ forget. He can’t forget his roots, his pain, and his history, his _everything._

_If only they knew that I-_

He was the personification of the nation who excels in philosophy, art, and sophistication. He had lived through countless battles before those nations were even born. He had lost and he had fought like a savage beast to put his land – himself- back together during the wars. He wouldn’t have lived this long and he wouldn’t have been able to create this façade if he was naïve.

But that was what they knew of him – an idiot, a coward, a naïve fool – and he was hiding his sadness and misery with smiles and airheaded remarks. But _he_ wasn’t that off with what he presents them.

The nations were very much his family now and he didn’t take it against them for their opinions of him.

He walked over the table, a set of stiletto knives and a Glock with its magazines placed innocently above, glinting as the light reflect against their surface. Grasping with his gloved hands, he sheathed the knives and gun on the holster partially hidden by his top.

He forwent his usual military uniform with what he usually wears when dealing with his mafia affairs- a black vest atop a black dress shirt rolled to his elbows with a red tie, black pants, black steel-toed combat boots and a pair of black gloves.

It was solely because he has to visit some families and finalize several alliance contracts before going to the World Meeting, that he even _bothered_ changing his attire. It’s amazing how well intimidating formal clothing works when dealing with a world mostly composed of power-hungry humans and easily-manipulated individuals.

He had to deal with several repercussions later at the meeting though, as the nations weren’t really used in seeing him…armed. Except during the war times but that was more of a protocol than anything else. He wasn’t ashamed of this part of him; it’s just that there was no prior need and no problems that arose to show this side to them.

Except now.

Normally, he doesn’t bother with the gun, knives – _hidden on his boots, holster, pockets, clothing –_ were more than enough but he has a feeling his mafia would do something stupid against him. Instinct, you can call it.

And while most famiglias are in Lovino’s domain, the most powerful famiglias were in his. And since that was the case, he was mostly in control with Italy’s underworld. Hard to control they may be, but they do their jobs right when pushed correctly. He can even say they maintain the equilibrium in North Italy. Some were great at it – cunning and sly motherfuckers while having enough charisma and sense of justice – while the others are just plain idiotic – thugs, the lot of them, brash cannon fodders.

He sighed, and looked at the white linen covering the canvas beside the table, tubes of paint scattered messily on the floor, feeling numbness and immeasurable grief flooding his senses.

_Time and time again but it was still so...so unfair._

He would really like to see Gilbert right now.

Contrary to what they present, Italy and Prussia were _friends,_ like brothers if he would compare it. But no one bothered to look past his happy mask to explore much of that.

Gilbert -Holy Rome’s brother-, _understood_ him. Not in the way Lovino does but in the way he _wants_ to understand himself. The war with Austria had created their friendship (and it was weird to call it as friendship because the term never seem to fit in right and until now he couldn’t find the right term so he leaves it at that – friendship); Holy Rome’s death strengthened it.

_…and their pain as dying countries closed their bond…_

He walked towards the door, it wouldn’t do him any good to look at the painting right now. His façade is defective enough as it is _today._

And he swears to _dio,_ if anything unfortunate happens, he doubts he could be as strong.

Feliciano Vargas exhaled deeply, closing sharp yet blank golden amber eyes, in secrecy against the world.  

**_August 6_ **

_Holy Rome’s death._

_And a World Meeting hosted by his country._

“Ve~.” With that, his mask slips on.

He’ll buy more sweets and paint later. And maybe stop by the cathedral.

* * *

Feliciano was screwed.

And that wasn’t even an understatement.

He was running late for at least thirty minutes now and that was bad.

Very bad.

Especially since he was the host country this time.

Germany will probably yell at him for his untimely arrival but he didn’t have a say for his tardiness. An enemy famiglia apparently sent an assassin to finish him and his associate, as they were signing the contract for an alliance.

In fact, dispatching had been easy, a bullet to a semi-vital part and he was falling like overcooked pasta to the ground, breathing in shallow gasps. But for _dio’s_ sake, the assassin utilized the flashiest method he could think of to kill two high-ranking individuals in the underworld.

A bomb. Of all the discreet methods out there, he chose a _bomb._

The _idiota_ used a bomb to try and kill them, so much for being an assassin. To think he breezed through the situated guards is unfathomable. _Must be a miracle,_ he thought.

He was lucky they were away from civilization, and no one died (not even the assassin, he damn made sure he was going to live), else the assassin would have faced a fate worse than death.

That’s why he was running late.

Even driving his fastest and breaking several road rules did not change this fact. Feliciano glanced at the clock. He clicked his tongue; it would take him approximately six more minutes to get there and again, considering he was the host, that is bad.

And after an agonizing _extreme_ driving, he was finally at the conference building, walking briskly towards the meeting room. Several feet away and he could already hear the voices of his fellow nations, agglomerating into a cacophony of words.

Once he was in front of the twin doors, he lightly dusted his attire – not that he didn’t earlier but it wouldn’t hurt to be sure – from the imaginary dirt and once he was sure that he could face them, he closed his eyes and pushed the doors open.

“Ve!!!~ I’m sorry for being late!!!”

* * *

Feliciano expected a lot of things.

He expected his fellow nations’ usual mirth and mockery.

He expected the laughs and even the curious questions they would’ve thrown him.

He expected to be looked down upon by the battle-inclined nations.

And yet.

He didn’t expect the silence that greeted him back.

It was pretty horrible to be standing alone, in front of the nations that are all just… _staring_ at you with unreadable expressions and closed mouths.

He could feel the tension rising higher for some fucking reason, and he could feel the stares of the other nations, especially the previous Allied Powers.

He grimaced, today was just not his fucking day.

“I take it you ran into some trouble?” Lovino asked, raising an eyebrow and breaking the tensed silence, and Feliciano would’ve hugged him right here and now if his brother wasn’t so harsh in front of the nations.

“Assassin. A stupid one. Everything went fine though, we got Europe’s most powerful in our fold now.” Feliciano responded almost mechanically.

Beside him, Antonio eyed Feliciano curiously.

Lovino hummed in acceptance. “That’s good and all and I worried for you earlier but I think you should be initiating the meeting now fratello.” He gestured at the still quiet nations around the long table.

“I really should, I suppose, si?” Feliciano sighed, turning back to a rather secluded part of the room, where they keep their weapons and other highly dangerous objects in their person. Everyone agreed that it was for the best as most of them are violent and ill-tempered.

Again, everyone’s stares followed him. He ignored it though, as he knows it is unusual for him to actually use those parts of the room. Italy and weapons? _Unbelievable._

He started with the knives, carefully removing them one by one above the table – from his boots, his torso, his sleeves – then the gun and its magazines and holster, followed by the other minor weapons like the steel wire coiled around his wrist and the needles on his pockets.

Turning around the room and taking his seat at the head table, he resisted the urge to twitch as the silence and blatant staring followed him like a plague, opting to start the meeting.

Smiling as if he wasn’t just unloading _dangerous_ (Italia didn’t do dangerous) weapons, “Let’s start the meeting ve~! Our menu for lunch is pasta!”

He may be a little off but he could deal with acting like a thick-headed fool for a couple of hours.

* * *

The meeting went by without a hitch.

Or as much as you would’ve expected from rowdy nations anyway but nevertheless, it went as usual. They managed to discuss the more immediate issues, however _tiring_ and _long_ the conversations took, and however impetuous the arguments are.

Feliciano had honestly expected something more eventful, like America bringing nuclear weapon samples, or Russia finally taking a more brutal approach to _becoming one with Mother Russia da?,_ or France antagonizing England, or even England himself performing magic (he conversed with his faeries a little, he probably thought Feliciano didn’t notice it).

But none.

It was both relaxing and taxing at the same time, not that he wasn’t thankful that they were quite tame today, but he _did_ expect more.

Sighing, he stood up and fixed every weapon inside his person in record time, immediately leaving the room.

And just like that, he was gone before the other nations could say anything.

* * *

“Lovino.” Antonio calls out, catching the attention of the strangely quiet Lovino. “Is Feliciano alright?”

Breaking his stare at the twin doors, Lovino faced him rather blankly. “Si. Today is…a bad day…that’s all.”

Antonio resisted the protective urge for Lovino and Feliciano to ask what the problem is – there was something painstakingly _sad_ in Lovino’s tone that made it clear how private this matter is. Still, it was unusual for Feliciano to be acting _colddetacheddevoidoflife_. Unnoticeable and as minor as Feliciano made it seem, Feliciano did not utter a single word of his own volition and – _that’s not Feliciano at all._ The other nations were oblivious, Germany especially, but he doubted he knew Feliciano well enough to read most of his body language.

But then again. He himself doesn’t know Italy very well, if his thoughts were any indication.

Feliciano smiles the same. Talks the same. Moves the same.

But there was something cautious and _tired_ in the way he holds himself that makes Antonio a lot more worried than he lets on.

_And I don’t know if that is a good thing or a bad thing._

“I’m sorry…”

Antonio tears away from his thoughts to find France apologizing to Lovino, a solemn look on his face.

Lovino laughs sardonically. Antonio could swear he was crying instead.

“You are an idiot France.” Lovino said simply, turning his gaze back at the twin doors. “Apologizing for who you killed or apologizing for what you did to my brother?”

France’s eyes widened, an almost comical expression if not for the guilt reflected as clear as daylight. “No-! I mean, that’s not what- I wasn’t-”

Lovino scoffed. “That day was your _capo’s_ orders, he knows. You ought to understand that he wants to forgive you, but grudges are hard to let go. You’d know that better than I do, _si_?”

France jerked, hand shooting up to his shoulder, poised in a way that reminds Antonio of how the phantom pain of his scars would ache.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to anyway. In any case, if your goal is to make yourself feel better about that day, don’t bother talking to him at all.” With that, Lovino leaves the room.

Antonio didn’t have the guts to follow him, nor question France.

“…I didn’t want to hurt Italy…” Antonio hears France muttering under his breath, almost like a chant. “I didn’t mean to…”

And nothing made sense.

* * *

_It’s scary_ , Gilbert thought.

It’s frightening how easily Feliciano could pretend that he was okay- for it takes a certain single-mindedness and hard-won experience to paint a smile that could grace those soft features of his, disarm the distrust that crosses over the eyes of all those that knew _of_ the nation, and elude the history of misery that he bears like a cross.

It’s so _so_ scary but-

-it’s also so very easy for Gilbert to distinguish the lies from truth, to separate Feliciano and North Italy into distinct personas and to read between the lines of every smile and gesture.

Even from back then, they had shared quite the close friendship, albeit it could’ve easily been mistaken for Prussia antagonizing the small nation to submission.

He always had a spot for small, little animals that needed shelter and protection from everyone nefarious, so _no,_ he could never think of Feliciano as a nation to colonize. It helped perhaps to establish their relationship, that Feliciano could be a little too trusting to people he could sympathize and relate with, someone who could understand the need to be apathetic yet emotional at the same time.

But more than anything, it helped because he _was_ Holy Roman Empire’s brother. He understands more than anyone else the pain that ripped ( _is still ripping_ ) right through Feliciano when his brother _died._

Gilbert had shared rage and sadness with Feliciano, at- at France and their fates as nations and their fallible strength. He had shared his pains and struggles and insecurities to quiet Feliciano who embraced him, eyes opened wide as he tells him the stories of his people. He had slinked like a puzzle piece to Feliciano’s life, not as a brother, nor a friend but as a _confidant_ and as somewhere he could rest- drop the act and grieve and cry and scream and throw fits and _let loose_ over every memory and boundary that haunts him.

He had felt great sadness over his brother’s death but only half the rage as what Feliciano had felt. 

Because more than anything, he had felt pity for his fallen brother. It was a cruel thing to feel he knows, for Holy Roman Empire was a proud nation through and through. But it was unmistakably pity. Pity that he was built with the pride of greedy humans that materialized him and fought tooth and nail for _territories._ Because conquering glory and gold and lands were the only _viable_ conquests during those times.

Gilbert looks out the window of their reserved room, grip loosening on the pen he holds and the stack of paperwork beside.

He stands up.

He had someone to find.

* * *

At Venice, his heart, there is a church forgotten by all of the residents except for Feliciano and his brother. At the outskirts of Venice, where the border between land and sea is thin, there is an abandoned church that can only be visited through a boat and known only to him.

It was his church after all.

Here, he had conducted masses, wed people and baptized them, taking the guise of a young priest with an interest in the arts of Italia, religious to a fault and kind to the bone.

Here, he had grieved when Holy Roman Empire had died.

The bricks that were once furnished with his Renaissance glow, now stood beautifully fragile, an almost decrepit stain. The moss covering it were minimal, for he had tried his damn hardest to maintain the cleanliness of the church. There were vines though, wrapping on the pillars and broken pews painfully, thickly, _tightly,_ but he didn’t want have the heart to remove them.

Because on spring they bloom and on autumn they die, beautiful wisterias that could only flower every three years, taken care of by the clear blue waters that flood the church knee-deep at high tides and recede to ankle length at low tides.

There was an elevated space, where an oak altar stood in the middle, in front of large shattered stained glass windows that illuminates the Adriatic Sea water prettily. The huge cross, that was once hung up in reverence was beside the altar, in pieces together with the rusted chalice and candle and incense stands.

He should’ve felt more with his church’s state of disrepair but there was something haunting and nostalgic about the ruins. And he doesn’t want that feeling to disappear _too_.

Because, here, in his church, he is at peace.

He likes to float above the shallow waters, cold and biting, feeling the sea seep into his clothes and the wind lull him to drowsiness. He likes singing his psalms and verses in the altar, his voice echoing in graceful loneliness. He likes to stare at the ceiling, filled with destroyed patches where light can pass through, stare- bore more holes as he reminisces.

Here, in his church, he could pretend there wasn’t anything amiss.

For the first time in weeks, Feliciano sleeps soundly.

* * *

 

And when he wakes up, it was to the sound of a melody being hummed that he faintly recognizes as Träumerei. Feliciano blinks the sleepiness away and sits up. There was only one person who’d hum such a tune. “…Gilbert?”

The humming stops.

“Thought you’d take forever to wake up,” Gilbert turns to face him from where he sits on a broken pew a few feet away.

“How did you find this place?” Feliciano stands up, walking to sit beside his friend, absent-mindedly noticing that the sun would almost set.

Gilbert smiles, uncharacteristically somber, leaning his head backwards and staring at the stained glasses. The light casts off a warm orange glow, bathing the discordant church in a faint light and reflecting its hues off Gilbert. “You told me about this place once, did you forget?”

He redirects his gaze to Feliciano, who gave him a perplexed look in return. “When we were getting our asses drunk. Last year, same date. You even told me how you’d like to restore this place someday-”

“-But then everyone would find out about it and it wouldn’t be my secret place anymore.” Feliciano finishes. 

He remembers, somewhat.

It was a sixth of August too and he was used to spending them alone and lost in memories on his own house in Italy. But nearing midnight, his doors rattled so _hard,_ he thought it was going to give out. Mind you it was a medium-sized mansion of marble and wood and textured materials, all of which are _high quality,_ not to mention _expensive._ And before he could even get a fucking weapon for what he initially thought was an _assailant,_ Prussia opened his bedroom door and dropped – _yes dropped-_ a case of an assortment of alcohol – from fine German and Italian wine to champagne to beer to vodka and even soju and sake (but obviously there was more beer because…well…German tastes) because _I wasn’t sure what alcohol you appreciated more so I brought everything,_ sending the bottles to clink noisily and creating a considerably sized dent on his floors.

He had, quite frankly and candidly, asked, “Gilbert what th _e hell?_ ”

Feliciano had half a second to wonder about how his night had gone to terribly depressing to terribly _crazy_ before Gilbert dragged him to sit on the floor and waste the dawn away. They weren’t lightweights in any sense of the word, but their alcohol supply wasn’t to scoff at either. By two am, they were trading stories and secrets-

“Yeah, I did tell you, didn’t I?”

-and by three am they were spilling tears, barely sober, on how everything could turn out pleasant while dreaming of the past.

“Eh,” Gilbert flicks his hands. “It was still a pain looking for you.”

“Is that so?”

“You wouldn’t fucking believe how long the traffic was! I almost got lost _thrice._ ”

Feliciano couldn’t hide anymore the smile that broke out. “Maybe you’re just bad at directions.”

“Maybe I am.” Gilbert replied, soft, almost a whisper.

“If it’s any consolation,” Feliciano leans to him, “I am too.”

Looking at the altar, Gilbert exhales.

“Guess that makes the two of us.”

If he could at least make _North Italy_ real, even if only in these transient moments, Gilbert would always get lost with him.

Over and over again.

And if Feliciano broke down after the silence that ensued, with only Gilbert and the church as witness, the sun dying at a far distance, it is nothing but two amalgamations grieving.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this dump. If you have ideas on how to better finish this mess pls talk to me, I'm not happy with the ending either hahaha but I'm running out of ideas and I really had to get it out now. 
> 
> I hope I made you sad while reading this. If not, well... :((
> 
> If you wanna rant or trade headcanons I'm open hahaha @wyxest on my pitiful twitter acc that is barely managed and full of my korean shit


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